


Feels Like Trouble

by reindeersidecar



Series: The Way They Were [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Angela is a mess, F/F, ana/mercy pairing predates pharmercy in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeersidecar/pseuds/reindeersidecar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We're not meant to move on. You can't take me along, but I know that you wanna.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feels Like Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> So after Ana's reveal today, I got to thinking about some...stuff. This is meant to be a companion to the other piece in this series. It can be read in either order or independently.
> 
> Thanks to ilili for sharing her truly great (read: despicable) headcanons and letting me use them here.

Ana Amari was an awful, dogged flirt, and Angela wasn’t immune to her charms.

How could she be? She was a twenty-three-year-old, first-year med student, hardly deserving of the attention and flattery of one impressive Captain Ana Amari, decorated war hero and esteemed co-founder of Overwatch. It didn’t hurt, either, that Angela found her _very_ attractive.

Or that some days she forgot—the mind was _really_ such a fickle thing—to do up a few buttons of her blouse.

“A pretty girl like you ought to not have her nose buried in a book all day,” Ana remarked with a sly smile whenever Angela declined to accompany her and the boys to a bar in favor of schoolwork. Ana never realized that Angela snuck glances up from that book sometimes—a lot of times, actually—to admire her.

Like today. Angela pretended to be deeply absorbed in her biology textbook, seated at her desk, as Ana angrily paced the length of the med bay, cradling the phone to her ear. “Fareeha, ya habibet albi, _forget_ about Overwatch. We cannot keep having this conversati—” Ana pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at in disbelief. “She hung up on me.”

Ana sighed and leaned over Angela’s shoulder to holster the phone in its stand. Angela tried not to dwell too much on the warm pressure of the woman’s chest against her back or her firm grip on her shoulder or even her breath in her ear. Angela sat completely still until Ana retreated to her usual spot on the couch, dubbed the “therapy couch” because it was often where many of the Overwatch agents came to air their grievances—although, as she’d reminded them on more than a couple of occasions, she didn’t have a degree in psychology.

Ana lay down and threw her head back against the armrest, her long hair spilling satiny and black over her broad shoulders. “What am I going to do with that silly girl?” Her voice was pleasantly rough against Angela’s ears.

Angela spun around in her chair. “Don’t you think you were being a little hard on her?” she asked. “All she ever wanted was to be you, Captain. You know that.”

Ana chuckled. She sounded terribly weary. “There’s nothing admirable about the life I lead. She shouldn’t aspire to _be_ me, Angela. She’ll realize that one day.” She exhaled heavily. “I don’t want this for her. I want her to be as far from this organization as possible, to do her own good in the world, not perpetuate my,” she scoffed the word, “legacy.”

“You’re being humble,” Angela murmured. “It doesn’t become you, Captain.”

Ana laughed again, this time a deep, beautiful sound. “Nor does your sass become you.” She shut her eyes. “Ah, you’re young and idealistic, Angela, just like Fareeha.” She sighed. “I envy you both.”

Angela pursed her lips and spun back toward her desk. She hated when Ana coupled her with her daughter. Fareeha was a teenager, barely a week into college—and Angela—she was an _adult_.

She had to make Ana see that.

* * *

Angela strode into Ana’s office that night and shut the door behind herself.

Ana was standing hunched over her writing table when she turned her head to look at her, lit only by the desk lamp. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Angela strode over, cleared the papers from her desk in one large sweep, and sat on top of the table, one leg over the other. Ana’s dark gaze was upon her, scrutinizing, and Angela nearly lost all the nerve she’d worked up. “I’m not a child,” she said flatly.

“No.” Ana’s sharp eyes flickered down her body, lingering where Angela’s pencil skirt rode up her thigh, before meeting Angela’s stare. “You’re not.”

“Then stop treating me like one,” Angela told her.

Ana leaned in close and said in a low, deliberate voice, “You should go home, Miss Ziegler, before you do something you’ll regret.”

Angela held her eyes, nervous energy tight in her stomach. “Is it something you’ll regret?”

Ana glanced at her mouth. “Not particularly.”

Angela uncrossed her legs. “Then why are we still talking?”

* * *

Angela tried not to make a habit of sleeping in at Ana’s place. It was admittedly hard to resist her large, warm arms around her, but she never did like to stick around for Ana to light her first morning smoke in bed. She couldn’t endorse that kind of behavior as a budding medical professional. And she had to get ready for work. She refused to entertain any speculation by arriving to headquarters in the passenger seat of Ana Amari’s car—in yesterday’s clothes.

As Angela made her way down the stairs of the apartment loft, she heard the ding of the toaster. She stopped on the second to bottom step.

Fareeha was home.

Angela swore under her breath. Fareeha was supposed to be at school, not here, not two seconds away from discovering her mother fraternizing with a coworker. Angela didn’t even want to think about how it would hurt Fareeha. She knew the girl had a crush on her.

Angela looked ahead at the front door and took off her heels. She only had to clear the kitchen entryway to make it to the foyer of the apartment, and Fareeha would be none the wiser.

She crept down the rest of the steps and snuck as quietly as possible past the light of the kitchen.

Only, Fareeha wasn’t in the kitchen.

“Angela?”

She started, looking behind herself. “Oh, Fareeha.” Fareeha was watching her from the top of the stairs. She was dressed in a T and sweats, sporting the Eye of Horus tattoo that Angela had taken her to get only a few weeks ago. She jogged down the steps and swung into the kitchen to pull her bread from the toaster.

Angela backed away, very aware of how disheveled and out of sorts she appeared. Her hair wasn’t in its usual ponytail, and her shirt collar was askew, her buttons mismatched; she hadn’t intended on seeing anyone she knew on the way to her car. The most offending detail had to be her heels in her hand, though. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Fareeha glanced up from her breakfast with an amused brow cocked. “I live here.”

“Yes, uh, I’m aware,” Angela stumbled. “I just thought you were away at school.”

Fareeha hooked a thumb over her shoulder as she opened the fridge. “I’m just doing some laundry.”

“Laundry,” Angela repeated with a sheepish laugh. “Right.”

Fareeha took the orange juice out and poured herself a glass. “And might I ask what you’re doing here so early in the morning?”

“I was just,” Angela scrambled for an excuse, “taking a house call.” The innuendo did not escape her ears, and she hoped Fareeha didn’t notice her blush.

Fareeha studied her closely. She had that same sharp, scrutinizing edge to her eyes that her mother often had. She parted her lips as if to say something but seemed to decide against it.

Angela felt a hand on her shoulder, and suddenly Ana was there in her bathrobe, beside her. She looked just as shocked as Angela had been to find her daughter in the kitchen, but she took her surprise in stride and with considerably more grace than Angela had. “Good morning, Fareeha.”

Fareeha stole a glance at Ana. “You look well, Mother.” Not like someone who needed to be seen by a doctor, Angela felt Fareeha had wanted to say.

“Miss Ziegler took care of me.” Angela tried not to let the private smile in Ana’s voice fluster her. Ana squeezed her shoulder. “She was just leaving.”  
Angela nodded and slipped on her heels, thankful for the excuse to leave. “Yes, I’ll meet you at HQ, Captain,” she said, a little more quickly than she should have. “It was nice seeing you, Fareeha.”

“Likewise, Angela,” Fareeha answered, the sharpness never leaving her gaze.

* * *

The affair lasted a matter of months, and when it ended, Angela was bereft. “We had our fun, Angela,” Ana had told her, “but let’s quit while we’re ahead. You’re a young, pretty girl, with her whole life ahead of her. You shouldn’t tie yourself down to an old woman like me.” She was thirty-six—hardly an old woman—but Angela understood her meaning. She couldn’t feasibly be with Ana beyond closed doors. There was no future there.

Angela tried not to wear her heartbreak to work—she was professional that way—but it also didn’t suit her to react so visibly, publicly, to something that seemed to barely faze Ana. She wouldn’t squander the respect she’d earned from the captain after all she’d done to prove her maturity to her.

She maintained a healthy distance. She addressed her with formalities. She didn’t let her lounge on the med bay couch anymore.

They were colleagues now. Nothing else.

* * *

She just about got over Ana, until she invited the captain along to Fareeha’s twenty-first birthday at the local pub.

“You should come,” Angela insisted, standing in the doorway of her office. “Fareeha would like that, I’m sure.”

“You’re fond of her,” Ana observed. Her dark eyes searched Angela’s face. “She’s fond of you, too, I’ll have you know.”

Angela glanced down at her feet. “I know that.”

“She isn’t me,” Ana told her bluntly. “She’s her own person.”

Angela glared at her. She clenched her jaw. “I know that, too.” She couldn’t believe Ana would even suggest that she’d replaced her with her daughter. Fareeha was not her mother at all. Fareeha was sweet and polite and considerate—none of the words with which Angela would describe Ana Amari.

Was it really any wonder that she found herself drunkenly making out with Fareeha against the stall wall of a public bathroom that night? A small, pitiful part of her had wanted to break Fareeha’s heart, the way Ana had stepped on hers.

She was thankful, at least, that Fareeha had stopped her when she had.

* * *

The first time Fareeha brought her mother up, Angela was straddling Fareeha’s lap on the med bay couch, reaching around her to unclasp her bra.

“Angela,” Fareeha panted into the crook of her neck, “do you want me for me, or do you want me for her?”

That killed the mood rather fast.

Angela leaned back and smoothed her hands along Fareeha’s broad shoulders. She didn’t have an answer for her. At least, not an honest one. “I should go,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Fareeha rasped. “Maybe you should.”

* * *

The next time Ana was brought up it was a few years later, after Fareeha’s first commendation ceremony.

Angela spent the whole night admiring Fareeha who looked so sharp and strapping in her uniform. When her superior officer pinned the badge to her shoulder, Fareeha met Angela’s gaze, a playful glimmer in her dark eyes, and Angela knew in that instant that she’d never been in love with Ana Amari—Ana had only been an itch she had to scratch—but she surely did love Fareeha.

Angela invited her back to her dorm in headquarters for drinks. When she reached for the buttons of Fareeha’s coat, Fareeha trapped her hands under one of her own against her chest. Angela felt her steady pulse against her palms.

“I’m not my mother, Doctor Ziegler,” Fareeha reminded her with a sigh.

Angela shook her head. “No.” She lifted her hands to her uniform collar and stepped in closer, pressing her face into Fareeha’s cheek. She smelled of soap and clean laundry. “You’re not.”

Fareeha held her waist and turned her head toward Angela, their lips scarcely touching, her warm breath fanning across her mouth. “Am I enough?”

Angela smiled. She was certain of her answer this time. “Fareeha,” she murmured, “all I want is you.”

Fareeha laughed, and it filled Angela with such warmth. “Well, that can be arranged.”

* * *

When Ana was presumed dead, Angela wasn’t sure what hurt more: losing Ana or watching Fareeha lose her mother.

* * *

Though they hadn’t seen each other for five years after Ana’s death, after they thawed the ice, it wasn’t all that hard for the two of them to relax into old, familiar ways. They reacquainted themselves on the old med bay couch.

Fareeha was on top of Angela, her knee pressed between her legs, her hands up the front of her blouse, when the siren blared. She dropped her face into the crook of Angela’s shoulder with a frustrated groan. “Angela, I don’t think you realize how uncomfortable the Raptora is when you’re….” She glanced down her own body pointedly, clearing her throat. “You know.”

Angela laughed. “Oh, I have some idea.” Her Valkyrie suit wasn’t entirely pleasant either under those circumstances. Nor did she like having to confront a threat with her head still heavy and hazy with arousal or indecent thoughts of Fareeha. It was an admittedly huge distraction. No wonder there were anti-fraternization laws.

Fareeha pushed herself up from the couch and hovered there above Angela, her cartouche dangling from her throat. “Can we continue this later, Doctor?”

Angela smiled, brushing her thumb across Fareeha’s lips. “You know my door is always open to you, Captain.”

They made sure they looked as put together as they had before their little rendezvous on the couch and hurried down the hall into the briefing room. What awaited them there was not a mission, but one Captain Ana Amari, back from the grave.

* * *

Angela wondered how they ended up back where they started, with Ana Amari lying on her couch in the med bay.

The older woman hadn’t said anything since having invited herself in. Angela willfully ignored her presence. She had convinced herself for so long that she didn’t deserve Fareeha—part of it rooted in her own insecurities, part of it due to Ana’s accusations all those years ago on Fareeha’s birthday. She was finally in a good place. She wasn’t going to let this woman, this _ghost_ , come and ruin a good thing—the only good thing Angela truthfully ever had.

She pressed hard on her pen as she wrote her reports so that Ana could _hear_ her indifference, and maybe she would just _leave_.

“So, Angela,” she began. Either she didn’t get the hint or didn’t care to take it. Angela knew it was the latter.

“Doctor Ziegler,” Angela corrected her.

“Right, Doctor,” Ana said. “You and Fareeha.”

“What of it?” Angela tensed up, poised to strike, if need be.

“I saw you out there today,” she murmured. “You make quite the team.”

Angela didn’t know what to say. She’d been so prepared to argue with her. She’d rehearsed about a hundred different things she would say if she ever saw Ana again, and now, here she was, and Angela had no words left for her.

“Truthfully, when I dropped off the radar, knowing you would take care of my daughter was no small reassurance. In fact, it had made all the difference in my decision,” Ana admitted. “I knew that Fareeha would be safe in my absence, because she had you.”

Angela felt tears sting her eyes. She feared if she spoke her voice might betray her. So she sat there in silence.

“Ange—sorry, Doctor.”

Angela swallowed back the lump in her throat. “Yes?”

“Mind if I lie here a while?”

Angela felt the tension leave her shoulders. “No,” she murmured. “Stay as long as you’d like.”


End file.
